Mr Arthur's Toyshop

Mr Arthur’s Toyshop

By Oliver Franklin

Copyright © 2021 Oliver Franklin

The author has asserted his moral rights

First published in 2021 by Buddlewood House

Typesetting, page design and layout by DocumentsandManuscripts.com

Cover illustration by Melissa Franklin

The right of Oliver Franklin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the copyright, design and patents acts pertaining. All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this work may be made without written permission from the author.

The series in reading order –

Erasmus Septimus Knight

Mr Arthur’s Toyshop

Chapter 1

Availing of Opportunity

It was true, fame had its advantages. For example, the church was so grateful that they had given him and his friends a reward of fifty pounds each and their pictures had appeared in the newspaper. But it also had its drawbacks – as almost everybody knew about him now and he could scarcely go anywhere without being recognised.

Erasmus Septimus Knight felt all his privacy had been taken away and it was a mite annoying. Being greeted as a mini celebrity upon entering the newsagent to buy a haunted milk ice lolly was a novelty to begin with, that had now most definitely worn off. To the point that he’d even considered going out in disguise, but had given up on the idea after examining himself in the mirror, wearing a bobble hat, sunglasses and a fake, plastic moustache that he had won in a Christmas cracker.

But it was now January, cold and wintery, and he had something important on the horizon to look forward to – his birthday on the twenty-eighth, which, apart from anything else, would be his first foray into teen age.

It was Saturday afternoon and he was sitting at his desk, thumbing through a book he was about to read. His English teacher had set this for the class over the holidays, in preparation for a study at the start of term. Septimus had left it rather late, considering he had three-hundred pages to do by Monday morning. But still… The book was titled Mr Arthur’s Toyshop and, according to the blurb, was set in the mid-nineteenth century in Victorian London.

Curious, Septimus turned to Chapter 1 and began to read.

The yellow smog was descending upon Oxford Street, late in the afternoon as the hustle-bustle and clatter of hooves surged all around him like a great swell of the river. Meanwhile the young boy in cap and jacket was transfixed by the scene beyond the window. A myriad of colour and shape overwhelmed his senses and, were it not for the burgeoning signs of Christmas elsewhere, this oasis of joy would have appeared so out of place, as to be quite unreal. The panes of spun glass, with all their imperfection turned a clockwork soldier into a broken rainbow, a coloured lantern into a cascade of jewels and the man behind the counter into a many-headed monster.

With his face pressed up against the window, Rex didn’t notice the other man approaching.

‘You want to be getting home, Son, ’t’ll be dark soon!’

Rex turned and saw the lamplighter going about his business, albeit if the smog were really heavy, the lamps were neither good for man nor beast.

‘I have no home, Sir,’ he replied.

‘Oh – well – don’t be loitering. Folk’ll think you’re up to no good,’ and he continued on his way, stopping at intervals and leaving another orange glow behind him. Soon he disappeared from view amongst the crowds, but the telltale balls of flame gave away his presence for a long time after.

Being cold and having spent nearly the whole day searching for board and lodging, and being determined not to return to the workhouse, Rex decided this was his last chance before heading back to find a place under the bridge, or in a cellar. In truth he had no experience of life on the street, except what he’d seen and heard of others. Mr Watkin had at least had the heart to warn him not to fall foul of the Poor Laws, before turning him out of his house. Rex didn’t know much about the law but he knew only too well the grim regime of the workhouse. And spending the next five years of his life as a climbing boy, in comparison was positively pleasant. He had even been taught to read – a rare delight for someone of his status. In fact the London Society of Master Sweeps operated under a set code, which included the exemption from working on the Sabbath and the obligation to attend Sunday school in order to study and learn to read the bible.

Climbing boys were kept in some harsh conditions, often sleeping in cellars, their beds nothing more than bags of soot. But Rex would take that job any day of the week rather than the horrors of the treadmill, seeing exhausted colleagues fall from the wheel to be crushed in the works.

Mr Watkin had been a smaller operator, employing only three boys, the two other of which had died through soot on the lungs. And now that Rex had outgrown the chimneys, he had been put out of the house with some money and told to find his own way. So here he was, with one last roll of the dice.

Trembling, he pushed open the door. The bell chimed and he made his way inside.

‘I like the start,’ Septimus muttered to himself, ‘almost as good as the stuff I write.’ Then he took a swig of tea and continued.

A few minutes before six that evening, being about a hundred pages in, he stopped and marked his place. Then he got up, grabbed his coat and prepared to go out. The tale was engrossing indeed but Tom Slocombe had invited him round for tea and that was an opportunity not to be missed.

The Slocombes were much wealthier than his family and their house far more exciting. And not only the house, the garden was much bigger too, which meant there was plenty of space to muck about. In this case mucking about didn’t mean really bad behaviour, rather sawing branches off dead trees, building bonfires and making homemade fireworks.

Tom Slocombe lived just around the corner in a street called Gorwell and after saying Bye to his mother, Septimus was knocking on his friend’s door two minutes later.

‘Great Scott! I wonder who that could be?’ came a muffled voice of fake surprise from behind the door.

‘Limehouse Harmony Club annual outing,’ Septimus announced, quoting from his favourite film, deciding that a ridiculous question called for a ridiculous answer. After all, Tom had invited him over and knew perfectly well he was coming.

The timber door swung open and his friend appeared, grinning. ‘Lighthouse what?’

‘Limehouse Harmony Club annual outing,’ Septimus repeated.

‘You goof! Still on about that silly film?’ Tom remarked. ‘Come in!’

‘One of our Dinosaurs is Missing is a great film,’ Septimus argued, hanging up his coat on the rack inside the entrance. ‘It was the funniest thing to come out of Disney in a decade – and that’s not my opinion, I read it on Wikipedia.’

‘Whatever,’ Tom mumbled. ‘Sausages and mash for tea, and I think we’re getting onion gravy!’

‘Great!’ Septimus said. ‘Now, what was this trick you wanted to show me.

‘Ssh,’ Tom replied, tapping his nose. ‘Mum,’ he hollered toward the kitchen, ‘how long before tea?’

‘Fifteen minutes. Hi, Septimus,’ came Sarah Slocombe’s voice from down the corridor.

‘Hi, Mrs Slocombe,’ he replied, as Tom beckoned him through the dining room and out into the back garden.

Septimus was somewhat intrigued as Tom then led the way to the garden shed, which, apart from its more usual function, was also their occasional meeting place for secret discussions with their fellow crime fighters. Tom slid back the rusty bolt on the door and let them inside. Closing the door behind them, he switched on the light and said, ‘Here – ’

‘Here what? Where?’ Septimus asked, looking around confused.

‘Here is where we have to do it,’ his friend explained, gesturing towards a dusty workbench, with a few odd bits lying on it, ‘otherwise the bang will be too loud and Mum is bound to come charging in on us asking questions.’

‘Bang?’ Septimus repeated faintly, imagining everything from homemade fireworks and weedkiller bombs to exploding lawnmowers.

‘A friend in Sixth Form told me about this,’ Tom began, picking up a plug with a length of electric cable. Septimus noticed that the ends of the three wires were bared and some of the strands frayed.

‘You’ve got friends in Sixth Form? Wow! You get about, don’t you?’

‘Don’t try and change the subject,’ Tom argued. ‘This is a dangerous experiment and I don’t want either of us to get zapped.’

Septimus moved closer and watched in growing trepidation as his friend carefully separated